


Afterlife

by willowoftheriver



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Body Horror, Canonical Character Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Implied/Referenced Torture, Infected Clancy, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Omega Verse, Poor clancy, Random & Short, Vomiting, except not, sanity slippage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 10:23:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13456254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowoftheriver/pseuds/willowoftheriver
Summary: Clancy has the misfortune of being an omega.(Eveline wants to expand her family, in a more natural way.)





	Afterlife

Clancy dies.

Clancy screams and screams and screams and screams until nerve endings are ash, until there’s fire in his throat, until skin sloughs off to join the smoke in the air and stick to the inside of his open, gaping mouth.

Clancy _dies_.

Except he doesn’t.

 

.

 

( _Once, Clancy jumps. He sways for half an instant on the railing and then he’s tipping forward, so gently, so quietly. It’s not a long fall, but below are the jagged metal remains of what used to be a stall for animals, the cows whose legs are scattered throughout the compound like festering pieces of art._

_He can still feel the pain of it, of the penetration, the jagged rip of heart and liver and intestines as they burst inside him. He can still feel all sorts of pain._

_Lucas is pissed when he finds him. He puts him at the blackjack table for a few days._

_All his fingers grow back.)_

 

.

 

Clancy dreams, whenever he closes his eyes. He dreams in shades of grey and black, in filth that crawls up walls and over a dinner table with barren, empty chairs. He dreams in watery light filtering in through thin cotton curtains, rotting in briny swamp air. Decaying wood and spoiled food and burning flesh, the reek of maggots in a wound.

And always, always the song. The same song, in the same voice.

Until it stops. And speaks.

“I think you’ll be a good aunt.”

 

.

 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Time burned away with all his skin and now it’s like he exists outside of it, in this hellhole at the end of the world where the seasons never change. Sanity isn’t here, and reality isn’t here, and all that’s left is _this_.

But his body doesn’t see it that way. His body, that regrows limbs and bones and skin and eyeballs and teeth, with its tissue writhing beneath its thin sheet of skin and its blood that can flow out of his veins indefinitely to land thick and discolored on the floor, squirming and half-alive.

But his body has managed to retain one familiar feature, one function that’s dug in and clung on as cells warped and mold grew up in between his charred meat and his skin as though he were a fucking wall.

There are no suppressants here. But Clancy hadn’t thought about that. Not until the fever sets in.

Not until Lucas pauses, and his nostrils flare, and a smile splits his face.

 

.

 

There’s blood on his thighs and down his legs and in his mouth and on his neck as Lucas _bites-licks-bites-licks_ until his face is drenched in red and the sweet, sweet smell of the pheromones gushing from the gland.

(And Clancy, Clancy’s body twists and preens because _alpha, alpha, he’s pleasing his alpha_ , pleasure and pain warping into one single sensation it can no longer distinguish between, and he _comes_.)

 

.

 

(For the first time since he’s been here, Clancy cries.)

 

.

 

The woman— _Marguerite_ , the mother—is obsessed with her cooking. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that.

Clancy still won’t eat it, though.

“Boy,” the father snarls, and Clancy startles, but it’s not him he’s talking to. He throws a beer bottle at Lucas’s head, which is dodged and shatters against the dining room wall. “Why’re you upsettin’ your mama bringin’ some damn whore to the dinner table?”

Clancy stares at the food on his plate, so lovingly dished out. Marguerite had smiled with her brown teeth as she’d ladled it out, all southern hospitality and cloying sweetness.

He remembers Andre’s voice like the crisp chime of a bell in his ears, louder than the song hummed like white noise in the background of his every thought.

_“Not hillbillies. The Bakers. Jack and Marguerite Baker. And they were quiet, not backward.”_

He looks at the grey-brown stew of lumps of meat and gravy, a yellowed molar bright enough to stand out as it floats near the top, and he feels his chest seize up, fear and pain and _caring_ slipping out of his mind and through his fingers until he just wants to laugh and _laugh_ until he can’t breathe, until he _dies_.

Instead, he pukes. It’s black and stringy.

Marguerite screeches, so offended. But then there are gentle hands on him, small and soft, up over his shoulder and down his back, sweeping hair out of his face.

There are two women aside from Marguerite at the table, both young, both dark haired. One stares at him, at the food she pushes around her plate without eating, with his own muted disgust on her face. The other smiles, smiles, smiles a dead, empty smile beneath dead, empty eyes that he isn’t sure see anything at all, even Peter when she killed him.

It’s neither of them touching him. It’s a—a little girl, a child, with a smile too wide for her face, head canted high.

“It’s nothing to get upset over,” she coos. She doesn’t have an accent like the rest of them, her voice like something from a fever dream, there and not there. And all at once she is but she isn’t, blurred around the edges, fraying at the seams, taller and hunched, clumps of hair clinging to a withering scalp. Blood and mold ooze out of her mouth down a wrinkling chin, but no, no, that’s just a photo negative, double exposed atop an image of health and youth, not here, not there, not anywhere.

“It’s just something a mother has to go through,” she says, and pats his head, and hums, hums, hums, hums. For once it’s in his ears instead of in his head, and beneath the cold, clammy slide of her fingers in his hair, he hears it for what it is. A lullaby.

Jack snorts and slams a hand into the back of Lucas’s shoulder, hard enough that he’s jerked forward into the edge of the table. “And here I was thinking you weren’t no kinda real alpha at all, boy,” he says, voice laced through with demented pride at having been proven wrong.

Marguerite caws about grandchildren.

The girl brings another hand to his face, tracing feather-light across a cheekbone. “I can’t wait until I have a baby cousin.”

The scar on his neck throbs, and something squirms just beneath it, under the skin. And then further down, in the gaping, hollow cavern between chest and hips, held in by sinew and membrane.

All Clancy can do is puke more.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all know what I think my kink is? People being pregnant in the worst, most fucked up, most hopeless situations possible. Is there a name for that? Did I invent it? I think I need help.
> 
> Anyway, I didn't mean for this to be so short, but it just seemed to kind of naturally end there. I do intend to continue it . . . just like I intend to continue the 5000 other things I've started . . .
> 
> -Anna


End file.
